


You're Giving Yourself To Me, I'm Giving Up On Myself

by cuddlepunk



Category: Twenty One Pilots
Genre: Depression, Hotels, M/M, Panic Attacks, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, Tours, its sad, this is sad, ty asks jishiwa for help while having a panic attack
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-17
Updated: 2015-10-17
Packaged: 2018-04-26 20:40:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5019685
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuddlepunk/pseuds/cuddlepunk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s so stupid. It’s just another day on the road, this hotel is an exact copy of dozens of other hotels across this state. The same window thirty people have stared out today. Hundreds of people feeling the same way I do. I’m nothing special. This is nothing special. </p>
<p>Tidal waves crash up against the inside of my ribcage, slowly filling up my lungs. Fireflies buzz around in my cranium, bumping into neurons here and there. Leeches tear their way through my large intestine, slowly chewing down every wall, slithering through slowly oozing portals. Each bone in my body collapses, bleach white bits grounding each other into fine, smooth powders.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You're Giving Yourself To Me, I'm Giving Up On Myself

**Author's Note:**

> ahah wow thsi sucks i didnt even read it over before i posted it
> 
> trigger warning death suicide self harm self hatred panic attacks you feel me
> 
> i (sadly) down own tyler or josh or top and pleasse dont share this with anyone involved in top you get the idea just dont be a jerk this is a work of fiction whatever

It’s so stupid. It’s just another day on the road, this hotel is an exact copy of dozens of other hotels across this state. The same window thirty people have stared out today. Hundreds of people feeling the same way I do. I’m nothing special. This is nothing special. 

Tidal waves crash up against the inside of my ribcage, slowly filling up my lungs. Fireflies buzz around in my cranium, bumping into neurons here and there. Leeches tear their way through my large intestine, slowly chewing down every wall, slithering through slowly oozing portals. Each bone in my body collapses, bleach white bits grounding each other into fine, smooth powders. My eyelids flutter like the papery hotel curtains. It’s so cold in here. I don’t know how to work the heater. Even if I did, my hands are shaking too badly to do anything even vaguely useful.

I can feel salty tears pooling on my neck, each droplet sending coasting lines down my collarbones. Lustrous downpours marking polished cheeks. My back is breaking, my head is numb and glossy. I don’t feel. I don’t exist. Josh is a few doors down. I wonder if he can hear me breathing. I wonder if the people right next to me are making noise complaints. I wonder if I’ll die tonight.

I’ve always been curious as to whether or not Josh knows, or if he can hear me. I spend so much of my time having mental breakdowns, sobbing under my covers, breathing rapidly and dragging blades across my skin. Surely he’s heard me at some point, right? He has to know what’s going on, he has to understand what his position is on all of this. 

And it’s not like he doesn’t care. If I ever asked for help, if I ever got just a little too loud, just a little too frantic, I know he’d come running. But as I do my best to see out that damn window fifty people have looked into in the past minute, pupils wading through overflowing tidal pools of saltwater, I think it might be time. 

But then again, how am I supposed to get help right now? Josh is down the hall, and it’s not exactly like I can just walk out at the moment. There are lake effect falls behind my irises, whirlpools sucking up each functioning cell in my body. I can’t feel anything. Silvery fingertips sinking into the liquidy surface of the back of my neck. Chunk after chunk of gelatinous tissues falling off in their wakes. Josh wouldn’t even want to help me. I’m revolting, covered in damp, viscous body fluids. I am not whole. He doesn’t want me. No one wants me. 

I feel my body convulse and contract, every muscle, tendon, and ligament creating a symphony of elastic snaps. Each fiber splitting itself in half, tearing me apart one cell at a time. Dissect each part of me, define my every thought. Categorize me. I’m unknown, prehistory, you’re left in my wonder. I am threads and needles. I’m scrapwood and bent nails. I am not whole, not useful to anyone. I’m non recyclable.

I reach up and out, dragging myself up from my seat on spongy, coarse carpeted floors. Knuckles scratching up against hardwood fixtures. Feeling each disk in my spine collide with plastery, pastel red orange walls. Wrists brush up against paper plate curtains, knees smashing into bed posts. Beads of clotting, sticky blood descending to mahogany desks and feathery chairs. I’m here. I’m here.

I don’t want to do this in my room. Each article of clothing is far too familiar, each of my possessions far too me to be comfortable. I do my best to make it to the lightwood door, my hand slipping and shaking against bronze doorknobs. 

Wander down hotel hallways, tacky patterned carpets digging into my heels. I let my elbows get crushed against creamy wallpaper and detailed railings. Allow the fluorescent lighting to seep into each layer of my skin. Drink up the stale air, feel the moisture get sucked out of the room by stuffy vents. My hand against cool door fronts, knuckles clunking heavily against thick wooden planks. 

He opens the door with his big concerned doe eyes, I probably look like a mess. He pities me, his gaze guilty and afraid. I shouldn’t have come. I’m just bothering him. 

And yet, he just pulls me into his broad, soft arms, closing the door behind me. I burrow into his shoulder, my inadequacy fogging up my senses. I’m being led to his bed, I’m wrapping my arms around his waist, I’m falling into hatred, and I’m giving up on myself. He presses himself against me, toned muscles and unmarked skin softening the blow on each of my shudders and shakes. 

God, I’m in love with him. I’m in love and it terrifies me. There’s nothing I can offer him. There’s nothing I can do to assist him. I’m worthless, a third wheel in my own relationship. He’s giving a part of himself up to me and I don’t even know who I am. I’m a seperate entity. I destroy and suck away all life, just a negative force altogether. And I’m crying on Josh’s shitty hotel bed, having a full blown panic attack, with blood dripping down the back of my neck and my arms. The hotel will be pissed about finding red stains on their bleach white pillowcases. 

It’s so blurry and cold I can barely feel his hands on my back, scarcely sensing his breath hitting my collarbones. I reach out and touch him, trying to find something to ground me, to tell me I really exist. Do my actions carry weight? Would the world wake up tomorrow if I died tonight? Can my thoughts have an impact on anything at all? Why am I here?

You’re whispering into my ear, telling me to chill out. We’ll watch some Netflix, we’ll veg out on nachos and vending machine junk. I’ll sleep in his bed tonight, he’ll keep me safe. I’m not feeling any better about tonight. 

As time goes on, things get easier. The morning light sheds truth on my unstable mind, the arms around my waist eventually slowly pressing against my heart, slowing it’s infinitely increasing beat. I let scratchy comforters dig into my arms, I let your hands explore my sides. I think I’m gonna be alright.


End file.
